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	<title>Remittance Girl : Erotic Fiction, Stories and Series &#187; Short Stories</title>
	<atom:link href="http://remittancegirl.com/category/shortstories/feed/" rel="self" type="application/rss+xml" />
	<link>http://remittancegirl.com</link>
	<description>Erotic Fiction : Stories, Series &#38; Novellas</description>
	<lastBuildDate>Mon, 06 Sep 2010 12:22:50 +0000</lastBuildDate>
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		<title>What You Want</title>
		<link>http://remittancegirl.com/shortstories/what-you-want/</link>
		<comments>http://remittancegirl.com/shortstories/what-you-want/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Tue, 17 Aug 2010 07:41:08 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Remittance Girl</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Short Stories]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://remittancegirl.com/?p=1561</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[“This is what you want, isn’t it?” she said, tugging my hand down the front of her skirt and pressing it home into the hollow of her crotch. The material was thin; there was nothing beneath her linen skirt. The sound of drunken conversation leaked out into the humid air. The shadows lay heavy across her face, turning her features to monochromatic stone, but the erosion was there, at the corner of her eye, where the light lay like a brand over her left cheek. “How pissed are you?” I shrugged. “Not very. Not at all, really.” “Is that going to be a problem then? Will you get squeamish and develop a conscience?” It was a challenge I didn’t bother to answer. Instead, I slipped my hand out from under hers, crooked a finger, and brought it up to brush along the line of illuminated skin. She had a light sheen of sweat on her upper lip. “What’s the hurry?” “I misread you. My mistake.” she said. The words were clipped, angry. Shouldering her purse, she turned to go. I caught her by the wrist. “You didn’t misread me.” It was the truth. In the bar, I’d been interested. When [...]]]></description>
		<wfw:commentRss>http://remittancegirl.com/shortstories/what-you-want/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
		<slash:comments>28</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>I Waited for You By The River of Time</title>
		<link>http://remittancegirl.com/shortstories/i-waited-for-you-by-the-river-of-time/</link>
		<comments>http://remittancegirl.com/shortstories/i-waited-for-you-by-the-river-of-time/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sat, 14 Aug 2010 12:14:16 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Remittance Girl</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Blog Posts]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Short Stories]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://remittancegirl.com/?p=1507</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[I waited for you by the river of time but you didn&#8217;t come. Is it impolite to fuck someone because I&#8217;m sad and tired of being sad? I don&#8217;t know. Perhaps it is. But the rain has started and it&#8217;s a long way back to my hotel. His is closer and more expensive. He&#8217;s middle aged and Russian, and has a bald spot like a monk&#8217;s tonsure. There are fine golden hairs on his knuckles; they glint in the watery light as he smokes cheap Cambodian cigarettes and fondles his weeping glass of beer like an old lover. &#8220;A game of chess?&#8221; he asks. So we play for a while as the rain buckets down and spatters the board with mist. I stood by the river of time and waited for a word but none came. These days, time stalls like a cranky engine. On this sodden afternoon, when minutes are hours, Sergei opens with a classic Spasky sequence. I&#8217;ll let him beat me because he probably will anyway, and why draw out the inevitable? I&#8217;m a good loser, being so practiced at it. &#8220;Check,&#8221; he grunts and grins. How can you deny people the little things that mean so [...]]]></description>
		<wfw:commentRss>http://remittancegirl.com/shortstories/i-waited-for-you-by-the-river-of-time/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
		<slash:comments>21</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>One Word &#8211; A Parable</title>
		<link>http://remittancegirl.com/shortstories/one-word-a-parable/</link>
		<comments>http://remittancegirl.com/shortstories/one-word-a-parable/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sat, 07 Aug 2010 13:48:20 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Remittance Girl</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Blog Posts]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Short Stories]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://remittancegirl.com/?p=1496</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[This is going to be the last piece of crap I post on this blog for a while. I don&#8217;t want to post anymore op ed pieces spouting my opinion on stuff. I don&#8217;t want to post anymore shitty fragments of garbage. I have to get my head back on straight and write good erotic fiction. Since it seems I can&#8217;t do that at present, I&#8217;m going to stay quiet until I can. Either I write something I can be proud of, or nothing at all. So&#8230; I&#8217;ll leave you with a parable. Once upon a time there was a woman who loved words. Not only was she in love with them, but they loved her in return. She kissed them and stroked them, fed and nurtured them. She held them in her cupped palms and pressed them to her breasts. She let them crawl over her body and lay eggs in the crevices of her soul. She built houses, towns, cities and whole worlds with words. And then she populated them with people woven from them too. She created tastes, touches, breezes, scents, and even made a sun of words to warm the world she&#8217;d made. Jungles grew in [...]]]></description>
		<wfw:commentRss>http://remittancegirl.com/shortstories/one-word-a-parable/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
		<slash:comments>43</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>The Stand In</title>
		<link>http://remittancegirl.com/shortstories/the-stand-in/</link>
		<comments>http://remittancegirl.com/shortstories/the-stand-in/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Wed, 21 Jul 2010 14:09:37 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Remittance Girl</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Blog Posts]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Short Stories]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://remittancegirl.com/?p=1453</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[The shoulders were about right, she thought. The height &#8211; perhaps he was an inch or two shorter &#8211; but that didn&#8217;t matter for much. Weight is something she&#8217;d never been good at estimating but perhaps this man was carrying just a little more muscle than was ideal. Giving her drink a clockwise quarter turn, its thick base rumbled as it slid over the slightly uneven surface of the wood. At least he was dark haired and eyed. Had he been blond, he wouldn&#8217;t have served her purpose at all. And there was no question he was unattached, at least for the evening. No woman at his side, no ring on his finger and, were that not enough, there was the vaguely predatory look in his eyes. Not that it would have mattered in the least had he been married. She was not shopping for commitment. But, even so, his eyes more than anything else, told her that, on being approached, she would not be rejected. Almost with the lassitude of someone who has a necessary but unpleasant job to do, she stood up, wove her way between the busy tables, and took the stool next to his at the [...]]]></description>
		<wfw:commentRss>http://remittancegirl.com/shortstories/the-stand-in/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
		<slash:comments>13</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>Apple Ginger Rolls &#8211; An R Rated Recipe</title>
		<link>http://remittancegirl.com/blogpost/apple-ginger-rolls-an-r-rated-recipe/</link>
		<comments>http://remittancegirl.com/blogpost/apple-ginger-rolls-an-r-rated-recipe/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sat, 22 May 2010 09:10:44 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Remittance Girl</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Blog Posts]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Twitter Fiction]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://remittancegirl.com/?p=1265</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[(For the dough) 1 cup warm milk (110 degrees F/45 degrees C) 2 eggs, room temperature 1/3 cup margarine, melted 4 1/2 cups bread flour 1 teaspoon salt 1/2 cup white sugar 2 1/2 teaspoons instant dry yeast (For the filling) 3/4 cup brown sugar, packed ¼ cup white sugar 2 tablespoons ground ginger 1 tsp nutmeg 1/8 tsp ground cloves 1/3 cup butter, softened 2 apples peeled and chopped into small cubes 1 cup dried cranberries (For the icing) 1 (3 ounce) package cream cheese, softened 1/4 cup butter, softened 1 1/2 cups confectioners&#8217; sugar 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract 3 tablespoons of lemon juice 1 tablespoon of ground ginger 1/8 teaspoon salt Melt your 1/3 cup MARGARINE or butter – set it aside to cool. No, sadly, you can&#8217;t use female effluvia or cum. Break the 2 EGGS into a little bowl – set aside for them to warm up a bit. Or you can warm them up between your thighs. Heat 1 cup MILK, but just really only to warm – pussy temperature (you know what that’s like, don’t you?) – you don’t want to kill the yeast! In the ENORMOUS bowl, sprinkle the 2 teaspoons of INSTANT [...]]]></description>
		<wfw:commentRss>http://remittancegirl.com/blogpost/apple-ginger-rolls-an-r-rated-recipe/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
		<slash:comments>8</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>Amnesia&#8217;s Heart</title>
		<link>http://remittancegirl.com/shortstories/amnesias-heart/</link>
		<comments>http://remittancegirl.com/shortstories/amnesias-heart/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Fri, 14 May 2010 15:37:11 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Remittance Girl</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Blog Posts]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Short Stories]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Twitter Fiction]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://remittancegirl.com/?p=1232</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[There was once a little girl whose father was a wicked wizard who could turn gold into dross and back again. She, of course knew nothing of this. She lived in a grand house on a grand hill, in a grand city. One day, an old man came to the house to speak to her father, but the butler wouldn&#8217;t let him in because he has shabbily dressed and spoke with an accent. Amnesia, for that was this little girl&#8217;s name, was playing in the garden and took pity on the old man. &#8220;My daddy is always busy.&#8221; &#8220;Busy ruining the world,&#8221; said the old man gruffly. Amnesia had never heard a bad word said about her father. She was shocked. &#8220;Don&#8217;t say bad things about my daddy!&#8221; she cried. &#8220;Your father,&#8221; said the old man, &#8220;is a monster!&#8221; This shocked Amnesia even more. &#8220;And YOU,&#8221; she replied, remembering a phrase her mother often used, &#8220;are a nobody!&#8221; The old man stared down at her in fury and cried: &#8220;I curse this house, and I curse this family, and I curse you! For your heart is no more than meat!&#8221; And with that he left. Life went on as always [...]]]></description>
		<wfw:commentRss>http://remittancegirl.com/shortstories/amnesias-heart/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
		<slash:comments>4</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>Salt of the Earth</title>
		<link>http://remittancegirl.com/shortstories/salt-of-the-earth/</link>
		<comments>http://remittancegirl.com/shortstories/salt-of-the-earth/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sun, 09 May 2010 08:37:26 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Remittance Girl</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Blog Posts]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Short Stories]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://remittancegirl.com/?p=1211</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[Once upon a time there was a woman whose tears did not taste of salt. Of course, having tasted no one else&#8217;s tears, she had no idea this was unusual. Being fortunately born, she never had much cause to cry in self-pity, but a sad story, a poignant image or a melancholy tune could make her weep &#8211; just like anyone else. One day, after being fucked well and thoroughly by her lover, he collapsed on top of her in his sated exhaustion and pressed his parted lips to her temple where a single meandering tear was seeking to bury itself in her hair. &#8220;How odd,&#8221; her lover said. &#8220;What&#8217;s odd?&#8221; she murmured. &#8220;There is no salt in your tears.&#8221; &#8220;Why is that odd?&#8221; &#8220;Well,&#8221; the lover whispered, &#8220;everyone&#8217;s tears are salty.&#8221; At first, the woman didn&#8217;t think much of it. But as time went on, the lack of salt in her tears began to bother her more and more. It disturbed her that she wasn&#8217;t normal and, suspecting that her lover looked at her differently now, she left him and went in search of some answers. She embarked on a long journey, travelling the world. At every place that [...]]]></description>
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		<slash:comments>9</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>Escape Velocity</title>
		<link>http://remittancegirl.com/shortstories/escape-velocity/</link>
		<comments>http://remittancegirl.com/shortstories/escape-velocity/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sun, 04 Apr 2010 16:53:57 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Remittance Girl</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Flash Fiction]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Short Stories]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://remittancegirl.com/?p=1164</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[In the no man&#8217;s land a mile above some unnamed piece of terrain, only God knew what time it was. The aircraft creaked and hummed in the gentle turbulence, the darkened cabin smelled of precooked meals and filtered air. That great metal bird, with slumbering strangers tucked neatly in its metal belly, carried me towards a dreaded stage of adulthood. In the dimmed cabin, I lay back in my seat, nestled under my thin wool airplane blanket and let the music in my headphones pull me into that private space where sight and sound inexplicably become one. I couldn&#8217;t take my eyes off the crystal droplet of moon precariously hung in the indigo sky above an endless froth of charcoal clouds, beyond the frost-fringed oval window. And I could not let go of the song. When it ended, I fumbled blindly for my player, and dialed it to repeat. It saturated my blood, forcing out all the other bonds that worried at the edges of my consciousness. I snuggled deeper into my seat, felt my nipples stir at the sensation of fabric against fabric, and the song looped again, forging emptiness inside me. With my gaze still fixed on that [...]]]></description>
		<wfw:commentRss>http://remittancegirl.com/shortstories/escape-velocity/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
		<slash:comments>22</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>Extremely Filthy Haiku</title>
		<link>http://remittancegirl.com/falshfiction/extremely-filthy-haiku/</link>
		<comments>http://remittancegirl.com/falshfiction/extremely-filthy-haiku/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Wed, 17 Mar 2010 16:53:18 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Remittance Girl</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Flash Fiction]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Twitter Fiction]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://remittancegirl.com/?p=1137</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[For those of you who visit my blog, but aren&#8217;t on twitter, or don&#8217;t follow me there, I thought I&#8217;d offer you the product of a mad twitter Haiku binge that played itself out on our main timeline this morning. Primarily it started as a duel between @mols_erotica and myself, using the #haikunastiness hashtag. However, a number of other tweeters joined and it ended in something of an orgy. Some of these are silly, some are just raw, but some have a heat and an elegance that really resonates. mols_erotica: How can you leave me You have only cum two times Do you not want more? mols_erotica: I have baked a pie I have left out the topping Supply me your cream remittancegirl: I&#8217;m not convinced your intentions are honourable you curdle my cream mols_erotica: You have defiled me Bless me with your seed some more I am your bearer remittancegirl: Please do not temper the surge of your desire cover me in it mols_erotica: Trap me in your love Strangle me with your prowess Drown me in your lake remittancegirl: Your placid surface belies a turbulence of desire beneath mols_erotica: Can I touch just&#8230;it Will you force feed me [...]]]></description>
		<wfw:commentRss>http://remittancegirl.com/falshfiction/extremely-filthy-haiku/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
		<slash:comments>5</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>Twitter Fiction: What You Want (#twittersmut) Part 4</title>
		<link>http://remittancegirl.com/shortstories/twitter-fiction-what-you-want-twittersmut-part-4/</link>
		<comments>http://remittancegirl.com/shortstories/twitter-fiction-what-you-want-twittersmut-part-4/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Tue, 16 Mar 2010 13:40:42 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Remittance Girl</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Blog Posts]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Short Stories]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Twitter Fiction]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://remittancegirl.com/?p=1133</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[That first thrust felt so fucking good. Everything I had imagined it would be. Fiercely hot, impossibly tight &#8211; she had the angriest cunt I&#8217;d ever been in. It was monstrous, delicious. I ploughed into her over and over, bracing myself against the back of the sofa, lifting her until the blood rushed to her head, giving her pale skin a deep rose flush. Her muscles seized me until it felt like I would never be able to pull out of her. I knew I wasn&#8217;t going to last, but it was a ghost of a thought; I didn&#8217;t care. My pulse was thundering in my ears, pushing me on, goading me to fuck her harder, faster, until my thrusts matched its rhythm. Suddenly her back arched, her muscles went rigid and her heels dug into the back of my thighs. That initial spasm was a door swinging open. I plunged in, through her orgasm and came as hard as I&#8217;ve ever come in my life. The vertigo was overwhelming. My knees almost gave in. It felt like minutes went by and still I could not stop erupting into that dark, angry cave. And with every spurt, I could feel [...]]]></description>
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		<slash:comments>8</slash:comments>
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